


Book Club for Two

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Food, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 09:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19003153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Cho and Padma, through the years and books they’ve shared.





	Book Club for Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nearlyconscious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearlyconscious/gifts).



> Hi nearlyconscious! You had a lot of fun prompts, but I just fell in love with the idea of the nerdy girls bonding and sappy domesticity. <3
> 
> Many thanks to [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios) for taking the time to beta and critique this fic. :)

Cho ran her fingers along the shelf, following the labyrinthine turns of the Hogwarts’ library. No dust would dream of sullying Madam Pince’s pristine shelves, though motes danced in the butter-soft sunlight streaking through the windows. The air was rich with the smell of leather and paper, almost musky against the subtle tang of aged ink.

The magizoology section of the library was impressive, meant for students who intended to pursue a career related to magical creatures, but Cho’s interest was esoteric enough that there was only one copy of the book she sought.

She let out a soft hum of satisfaction as she spotted it, the title emblazoned gold against the blue spine. She reached out to take it—

And her hand brushed another, poised to pluck it from the shelves.

The hand that Cho brushed was a beautiful brown color, with a square palm and long fingers. The nails were short, pared to display only the thinnest sliver of white crescent. The hand was attached to an equally attractive wrist and forearm, which vanished into a standard-issue school robe that managed to look stunningly non-standard on the especially-attractive Padma Patil.

“ _The Magizoologist’s Field Guide to the Moths and Butterflies of Great Britain and Ireland_?” Padma asked, the title leaving her mouth in a breathless rush.

“Ah—yes.” Cho was feeling breathless herself, flushing at this unexpected dilemma. “And there’s only one copy.”

Padma raised an eyebrow, considering. “Well. We have two options. We can fight for it, or we can share.” She grinned, flipping her braid over one shoulder. “What do you say?”

. . .

They started a two-person book club, side-by-side in one of the massive squishy armchairs of Ravenclaw Tower. They sat close enough their thighs touched, sending heat tingling all the way up Cho’s belly and making her cheeks flush. She hoped it could be excused as just the excitement of a new book, but what excitement could compare to the brush of Padma’s hand against hers, or the way they balanced the book across their laps and took turns flipping the page?

Knowledge was a virtue, so Cho interrogated her feelings at length.

Padma was beautiful. That was a fact, undeniable as fresh ink on vellum. Cho found many things attractive, in many people—Cedric Diggory’s jaw, Ginny Weasley’s freckles, even the sharp sweep of Professor McGonagall’s hair, not that that Cho would ever admit to having a crush on a _professor_ —but Padma was more beautiful than most. Padma was a nova, next to candles.

Padma was intelligent. That was also a fact. Cho had always done well academically—her parents wouldn’t allow her to play Quidditch otherwise, and had bought her Comet 260 on condition of getting high marks in all her classes—but she was spurred to more intensive studies as she started studying with Padma. Despite Padma being a year behind Cho, Padma liked to ask questions about the underlying theory of their courses, such as why particular lunar phases were associated with better brewing outcomes for potions using wolfsbane. Padma made Cho a better student by reinforcing the fundamentals, while Cho passed along old notes and exam questions to help Padma’s studies as well.

Padma was also—

Maybe—

Possibly—

—interested in girls.

This was a premise requiring more investigation, so Cho suggested they read Sappho together. It may have been the least-subtle hint she ever dropped, but Padma had been the one to suggest they read it _out loud_ , on a sunny bench in Professor Sprout’s garden.

Cho’s heart fluttered, and she struggled to keep her voice from trembling as she rose to the challenge.

“For when I look at you for even a short time, it is no longer possible for me to speak. But it is as if my tongue is broken, and immediately a subtle fire has run over my skin. I cannot see anything with my eyes, and my ears are buzzing—”

And her ears _were_ buzzing, or perhaps it was the low drone of the bees amidst the lavender, or perhaps it was her nerves shivering across her skin, kindling that same subtle fire of longing and desire—

“I feel that way every time I look at you, Cho.”

The world went white, a vast and ringing silence as Padma’s words pressed themselves between her ribs. Cho’s lungs whistled out in shock, but she didn’t have to think. She leaned over, kissing Padma—and she _meant_ to aim for Padma's mouth, she truly did, but Padma tilted her head and Cho’s lips ended up on Padma’s nose.

Padma let out a startled giggle, and so did Cho, and they rearranged themselves for a much better second kiss.

. . .

After the war, the stories they told—’they’ of the Daily Prophet, those who struggled to turn horror into history—were all about brave boys fighting and brave boys dying, but Cho had had enough brave boys for a lifetime.

Padma was warm and alive, kissing breath into Cho’s lungs as they rebuilt their fragile peace. They packed each other sandwiches and biscuits and tiny cups of Muggle-style instant noodles, the kind with two separate sauce and seasoning packets and a third for dehydrated vegetables. Time was a luxury they did not have, so they subsisted on pre-prepped meals and lukewarm cups of tea.

Padma started clerking for the Wizengamot at the same time that Cho started training as a Healer. The pay was terrible and the hours erratic, but they shared a tiny flat—’cozy’ in Cho’s words, but ‘miniscule’ in Padma’s—while dreaming of a cottage of their own. They held hands at night, lying together in jelly-boned exhaustion while whispering about walls lined with bookshelves and constellations painted on the ceiling, with a butterfly garden out the back. They had time to read—though precious little of it—and stacked the tables with journals, texts, and newspapers.

The day that Cho finally received her official green robes with the wand and bone, both of their families showed up to celebrate.

Parvati and Lavender came early to fuss over Cho’s makeup before the ceremony. Cho held very still, trying not to giggle as Parvati refused to let go of Lavender’s hand. It made the whole makeup process take twice as long as it should have, but it was worth it for the way it made Lavender smile, turning her still-sharp scars into a map of stars and comets.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do something else with your hair? Maybe curl it? A braid just feels so _plain_ ,” Lavender sighed, smoothing a stray wisp of hair behind Cho’s ear.

“Padma likes it,” Cho said mildly.

“And who knows more about style? She might be the smart one, but I’m prettier,” Parvati said, tossing her hair.

Padma sat next to Cho and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We’re identical, you idiot.”

Padma and Parvati bickered until Cho suggested a braided crown, and when Mr and Mrs Patil showed up with garlands, the twins looted the flowers to braid into Cho’s hair. Cho’s mother clapped her hands and shot fireworks from her wand, while her father smiled wide and gave her a wordless hug.

The ceremony droned on, and Cho itched inside her new robes, but she suffered patiently as her parents took pictures and her jaw ached from smiling. When they got home, Padma brought out a honey cake with rose water and strawberry jam. Between the Patils, the Changs, and one Ms Brown, there wasn’t a single crumb left at the end of the night.

. . .

It took three years, a small loan, and a big favor, but they finally got their cottage. They painted the ceiling, using magical paints to create a twinkling sky that showed the constellations in crystal clarity. They argued over the realism—or lack thereof—of depicting the stars with such artistic liberty, and agreed to show each star as if under optimal viewing conditions, but to also allow for the season rotation of their painted sky. It’s a fiddly bit of magic, and they were ravenous by the time that Padma finished the charm for movement and Cho added a quick-drying spell to seal the paint.

Their first meal in their new home ended up being a takeaway curry, eaten on the couch and using their still-packed boxes as impromptu tables. Their first kiss in their new bedroom tasted of cumin and ginger, and their first shower in the their new bathroom was full of laughter and giggles.

It took them two and a half weeks to properly sort their books, setting up a shared library where each of them had their own shelves. There was plenty of overlap and they swapped books freely, but for a few treasured items—Cho’s dog-eared translation of _Journey to the West_ , Padma’s furiously annotated _A Century of Wizengamot Common Law_ —they each had their own copy, while the shared books migrated between shelves, trailing knowledge and color-coded bookmarks.

They planted verbena and lavender in the garden, and spent long hours kneeling in the dirt with mud on their trousers. Cho wore a sun hat so floppy that it wobbled as she moved.

“Are you sure you need that hat? You could use a little color,” Padma teased, flicking a clump of mud at her.

Cho rolled her eyes, pretending to ignore her. She bit her lip, waiting until Padma had returned to pulling weeds, and slowly pulled off her gloves. Cho pounced, pinning Padma to the ground with a muddy squelch and tickling her mercilessly.

“Help! Help! Murder!” Padma wheezed.

“Mud baths are good for the skin!”

Padma’s squeals filled the air, bright and colorful as the swallowtails and fritillaries fluttering through the flowers.

. . .

Life settled into a comfortable routine.

Cho did her rounds at St Mungo’s, Padma climbed the ladder at the Wizengamot and earned better pay, if not always better hours, and they took turns cooking dinner. They shared office gossip and opinions on new trainees, and swapped reading recommendations and expanded their library to the point that they had to enchant an extra room into the cottage. Their old couch was thrown out, finally vanquished by a rogue badger. Cho joined a weekly journal club at St Mungo’s, where they discussed new articles and patient therapies. Padma had a monthly review at the Wizengamot, discussing the throughline of historic rulings and their modern impact.

But for everything else—luridly illustrated romance novels, slim volumes of poetry, picture-rich books on wildlife both magical and mundane—Cho and Padma shared the cozy warmth of their two-person book club.

There were plenty of quiet moments, a gentle silence with only the softness of their own breath and the occasional rustle of a page, but Cho’s favorites were still when they read to one another.

This was one such moment, Padma nose-deep in a scented bath filled with rose petals. The fragrant steam filled the room, and Cho perched on the lid of the toilet, leaning forward with a book in her lap as she read out loud. She liked reading in the bathroom, the same way she liked singing in the shower. Two glasses of fizzy wine sat on the edge of the sink, and Cho took a sip whenever her throat ran dry.

Cho finished the chapter, then smiled at Padma. Padma’s eyes were closed, her breath stirring the petals on the water. Gently, Cho asked, “Should I keep going?”

“Mhm.” Padma opened her eyes and burbled a response. Cho giggled as Padma crossed her eyes and shook her head, then Padma rose so her mouth was out of the water. “I want you to keep reading to me for the rest of our lives.”

Cho smiled, leaning over to kiss Padma’s forehead. “Of course. You’re my favorite book club.”


End file.
